they other day i came across a wrinkled article i cleverly stole from a magazine at a doctor's office once (have you ever done that? it's quite a rush!)--i couldn't not keep it. it was beautiful. and i couldn't decide this morning if i wanted to write about this or about beauty, because the rain was pouring on the green green world and it was so magical...but then maybe beauty is just a part of everything, so if i write about this i will be writing about beauty anyways?
in any case, here's the article:
Becoming a father
by Jay Teitel
Sarah Jennifer Teitel was born at 4:45 on a winter afternoon in 1979, in a room full of light. The sun was setting in the dead centre of a delivery-room picture window as she was born, giving the space the feel of an aquarium at dawn. The presiding obstetrician, a bit of a joker, paused when the baby was out only to its waist, like a kayaker. "Last bets on the sex," he said. Then he pulled the little slick body all the way clear, and it was a girl. I was in love.
And nothing had changed.
The details first: the delivery room was as crowded as a bus station, and in the welter of interns and residents my wife had actually momentarily shifted her hostility from me to the standup comic of an obstetrician, who at one point announced that since nothing much was happening, he was just going to step outside "for a sec."
"No, you're not," said my wife. A moment later the head crowned, white and vegetal, and then our daughter was out, her fists raised like a prizefighter's and her mouth as wide open as Lucy getting ready to yell "Blockhead!" at Charlie Brown. The umbilical cord was cut, the baby was carried like a brisket to a little stainless steel counter, weighed, suctioned, injected, swathed in a blanket, and brought to me. Her weight in my arms was half cloth, a narrow living wire inside flannel.
And I knew, even before my wife said, "Let me see," that I was feeling something irreversible. I was more than infatuated, more than doomed. I was involved in a process that made every other process that had gone before it not so much laughable as immaterial. I was a total goner.
And nothing had changed.
Here's why. Change usually involves a noticeable component, something detectable, added or subtracted. But when my daughter was born that afternoon, although something had definitely happened, nothing had changed. The second she was there, it was as though she'd always been there. It was as though I'd been asleep for 30 years and had woken up behind a stranger's eyes, except that this lovesick stranger was no stranger at all.
"Everything old is new again," the line goes in the song describing garden-variety love. "Everything new is old again" better describes seeing your child born. Men are all idiots, and here's one more thing we don't know until it's too late. We all have a doppelganger floating in the ether over our heads, identical to us in every respect except for being tweaked with a love so unconditional it turns every other love into a contract full of loopholes.
Mothers may create children. But children build fathers, from pieces the find in space.
i know none of us has kids yet (unless jamison's got a lovechild stowed away somewhere?), but that's just the perfectly most interesting time in life. because, while we can analyze ourselves and figure out how our fathers and mothers have (and haven't) made us who we are, we are also leaving behind our adolescent selves and becoming men and women who might almost be fathers and mothers of new souls.
my dear friend vange came to visit me the other weekend, and we went shopping for baby clothes. (she was going to a baby shower.) there's something about that kind of activity that stirrs up strange things in a person. it's such foreign territory, but at the same time somehow deeply familiar.
does talking about this stuff freak you guys out? or does it make you excited? or apprehensive? i was watching Fight Club the other night and noting the discussion about being "a thirty year old boy," and looking through an old journal yesterday and laughing over a "brief essay on the male condition" that i wrote to entertain jen. so i was just curious to hear you guys' perspectives on the whole "becoming a father" phenomenon...what kind of men you figure you are and will be...what terrifies you...what excites you...what you hope and imagine...anything you want to say, no limits or required topics.
as "the resident girl," i guess i could share my perspective (and i probably should lest i get in trouble for not?). hmm. on "becoming a mother." let me see. actually, vange and i talked about this too (which is really funny to us because we are not really girly-girls who do that, but we indulge secretly with each other from time to time.) mostly, the both of us are just really excited to be absolutely mischievous...the kind of moms who encourage adventure and disaster and who track mud through the house because really, what's a home without a story written all over it...the kind who discourage mowing the lawn because that would ruin the enchanted "landscaping"...who know the importance of cookies and cartoons...the kind whose husbands roll their eyes (in a bad way)(that we will inevitably charm away) and marvel at how they had no idea what they were getting themselves into...the kind who trade in our 5-day-in-a-row hoodies for dresses and sparkly things and act like prissy princesses when the occasion really doesn't call for it (should we have daughters, they will need to learn what being a woman is really all about, right? sparkly stuff and acting classy!) ...i guess i would just be excited to cause havoc. to make everything seem like it had a "to be continued..." dangling curiously off of it. i would hope that my children love stories and secrets and believe in magic and play outside and make up terribly unfunny jokes and find their way past what everyone else tells them about God to discover a frighteningly exciting understanding of who he is and what their lives are for... i don't think any of it freaks me out. i figure most people are just terrified of "the teen years," but i'm a certified specialist in the psychological development of people from the ages of 0-25 so i'm good to go. mahah. but honestly, there is just so much potential in every person...how fun i think it must be to watch it happen from the very first heartbeat.....(yeah, that's right suckers--us girls get to know our children before you even get to see 'em! what do you think of that!)
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Saturday, May 26, 2007
community
Being that this is somewhat of a community, i think we should choose a topic, and then all write our perspectives with that subject. but i don't feel like choosing one... so, lets say that the next person who posts gets to choose the said topic.
please, make it not crappy.
please, make it not crappy.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
the night and the morning
sorry for not writing.
i haven't much to say these days, and my vocabulary has become pitiful. a sweet old man who knows my life says i'm too hard on myself. he might be right...but i don't know what else produces character quite like discipline and struggle do. i think i'd rather see hope glistening in the distance than satisfaction sitting dully in my lap. ?
i was just sitting at work this morning eating an orange and listening to "John Wayne Gacy, Jr." and thinking how i like that someone wrote that stuff. i admire people who can say big things in few good words. i can't really do that, so i am fascinated by those who can; they are kind of my heroes.
last night i lost track of the universe and spent a little time with a fellow who's no longer here.
in lieu of unspoken inspired ideas, i wanted to share some old words today.
Adam's Curse
We sat together at one summer's end,
That beautiful mild woman, your close friend,
And you and I, and talked of poetry.
I said, 'A line will take us hours maybe;
Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought,
Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.
Better go down upon your marrow-bones
And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones
Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather;
For to articulate sweet sounds together
Is to work harder than all these, and yet
Be thought an idler by the noisy set
Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen
The martyrs call the world.'
And thereupon
That beautiful mild woman for whose sake
There's many a one shall find out all heartache
On finding that her voice is sweet and low
Replied, 'To be born woman is to know--
Although they do not talk of it at school--
That we must labour to be beautiful.'
I said, 'It's certain there is no fine thing
Since Adam's fall but needs much labouring.
There have been lovers who thought love should be
So much compounded of high courtesy
That they would sigh and quote with learned looks
Precedents out of beautiful old books;
Yet now it seems an idle trade enough.'
We sat grown quiet at the name of love;
We saw the last embers of daylight die,
And in the trembling blue-green of the sky
A moon, worn as if it had been a shell
Washed by time's waters as they rose and fell
About the stars and broke in days and years.
I had a thought for no one's but your ears:
That you were beautiful, and that I strove
To love you in the old high way of love;
That it had all seemed happy, and yet we'd grown
As weary-hearted as that hollow moon.
-- William Butler Yeats
i haven't much to say these days, and my vocabulary has become pitiful. a sweet old man who knows my life says i'm too hard on myself. he might be right...but i don't know what else produces character quite like discipline and struggle do. i think i'd rather see hope glistening in the distance than satisfaction sitting dully in my lap. ?
i was just sitting at work this morning eating an orange and listening to "John Wayne Gacy, Jr." and thinking how i like that someone wrote that stuff. i admire people who can say big things in few good words. i can't really do that, so i am fascinated by those who can; they are kind of my heroes.
last night i lost track of the universe and spent a little time with a fellow who's no longer here.
in lieu of unspoken inspired ideas, i wanted to share some old words today.
Adam's Curse
We sat together at one summer's end,
That beautiful mild woman, your close friend,
And you and I, and talked of poetry.
I said, 'A line will take us hours maybe;
Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought,
Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.
Better go down upon your marrow-bones
And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones
Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather;
For to articulate sweet sounds together
Is to work harder than all these, and yet
Be thought an idler by the noisy set
Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen
The martyrs call the world.'
And thereupon
That beautiful mild woman for whose sake
There's many a one shall find out all heartache
On finding that her voice is sweet and low
Replied, 'To be born woman is to know--
Although they do not talk of it at school--
That we must labour to be beautiful.'
I said, 'It's certain there is no fine thing
Since Adam's fall but needs much labouring.
There have been lovers who thought love should be
So much compounded of high courtesy
That they would sigh and quote with learned looks
Precedents out of beautiful old books;
Yet now it seems an idle trade enough.'
We sat grown quiet at the name of love;
We saw the last embers of daylight die,
And in the trembling blue-green of the sky
A moon, worn as if it had been a shell
Washed by time's waters as they rose and fell
About the stars and broke in days and years.
I had a thought for no one's but your ears:
That you were beautiful, and that I strove
To love you in the old high way of love;
That it had all seemed happy, and yet we'd grown
As weary-hearted as that hollow moon.
-- William Butler Yeats
Sunday, May 13, 2007
love and the 90s
my roommate started writing a 90's love song. which i thought was pretty cool.
explained to him that the nature of a true 90's love song was a third love. it wasn't a first love song, filled with innocence and joy, with cheesy teenage written lyrics. it wasn't the second love song, the one that sings of having been broken in the past, and unsure if love could happen again.
then, there is 9o's rock song. the ones that say "i've tried falling in love, falling in love hurt me, but now i've found a good love".
love songs have gone downhill since the 9o's. these days it's emo-esque bands writing complicated lyrics about overly complex relationships. some artists seem to overthink this notion of love, writing lyrics that are impossible to comprehend. the 90's love song said "i just want to love you, despite the mess."
or i could be crazy. i get this way when i drink coffee.
-------------------------------------------
PS- the arcade freaking fire! may 23! woot.
explained to him that the nature of a true 90's love song was a third love. it wasn't a first love song, filled with innocence and joy, with cheesy teenage written lyrics. it wasn't the second love song, the one that sings of having been broken in the past, and unsure if love could happen again.
then, there is 9o's rock song. the ones that say "i've tried falling in love, falling in love hurt me, but now i've found a good love".
love songs have gone downhill since the 9o's. these days it's emo-esque bands writing complicated lyrics about overly complex relationships. some artists seem to overthink this notion of love, writing lyrics that are impossible to comprehend. the 90's love song said "i just want to love you, despite the mess."
or i could be crazy. i get this way when i drink coffee.
-------------------------------------------
PS- the arcade freaking fire! may 23! woot.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
" adam and shaina's strange coincidence "
the back story:
adam liked one of shaina's poems so he asked her to send him more. she really only had two other poems and kept forgetting to send them to him, so one day when she had decided to write in her (sorely neglected) journal she came across a wee piece, which she sent out into the waiting room of her existence for adam to peruse as he patiently anticipated what we will refer to as "the main event" for dramatic purposes. (in case you've gotten confused, "the main event" is just the other two pieces shaina keeps forgetting to share. sometimes she does this with subconscious intentions of building up anticipation so small things seem like big things.)(give her a break, she grew up on a farm in saskatchewan--it's a coping mechanism.)
the main event:
(from this point on, "the main event" will now refer to something entirely different.)
(this being the strange coincidence that prompted adam to tell shaina to make this post.)
after shaina shared this forgotten morsel, adam wrote her back with a funny twist.
the contents of shaina's piece:
January.07
untitled
I took the things that looked like love,
and put them in a box tonight.
I'll leave the box beside my bed
to catch any accidental dreams
or hopes that fall out of my head.
And in the mourning, I will close the lid
up nice and tight and hide
it away, away from me.
the contents of adam's piece (aka "adam's funny twist"):
November.06
treasure box
i left every letter you sent to me
in a treasure box beside my bed.
forgot what the words said, forget what you meant
what you mean now is different
i don't recognize what i've become
i can't remember how to write,
can't remember how to relax.
i rolled out, placing my feet beside the box
a flurry of thoughts, i woke up feeling wasted
i opened it up, and all the letters were gone.
(i already forgot about you, as well).
adam liked one of shaina's poems so he asked her to send him more. she really only had two other poems and kept forgetting to send them to him, so one day when she had decided to write in her (sorely neglected) journal she came across a wee piece, which she sent out into the waiting room of her existence for adam to peruse as he patiently anticipated what we will refer to as "the main event" for dramatic purposes. (in case you've gotten confused, "the main event" is just the other two pieces shaina keeps forgetting to share. sometimes she does this with subconscious intentions of building up anticipation so small things seem like big things.)(give her a break, she grew up on a farm in saskatchewan--it's a coping mechanism.)
the main event:
(from this point on, "the main event" will now refer to something entirely different.)
(this being the strange coincidence that prompted adam to tell shaina to make this post.)
after shaina shared this forgotten morsel, adam wrote her back with a funny twist.
the contents of shaina's piece:
January.07
untitled
I took the things that looked like love,
and put them in a box tonight.
I'll leave the box beside my bed
to catch any accidental dreams
or hopes that fall out of my head.
And in the mourning, I will close the lid
up nice and tight and hide
it away, away from me.
the contents of adam's piece (aka "adam's funny twist"):
November.06
treasure box
i left every letter you sent to me
in a treasure box beside my bed.
forgot what the words said, forget what you meant
what you mean now is different
i don't recognize what i've become
i can't remember how to write,
can't remember how to relax.
i rolled out, placing my feet beside the box
a flurry of thoughts, i woke up feeling wasted
i opened it up, and all the letters were gone.
(i already forgot about you, as well).
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
_____________
many of us crucify ourselves between two thieves--regret for the past and fear of the future
-- Fulton Oursler
Sunday, May 6, 2007
quick side note.
ropey baby, let's definitely go to white rock when i get back.
call my cell after wednesday. if you don't have my number message me on facebook or myspace or the internet or mail or whatever.
shaina baby, let's also go to the ocean when you move out here soon. it's going to happen, whether you like or not, and oh baby, do you like it. miss you!
adoring readers, i want to go to white rock with you. let's make a date.
also for roper: take wednesday may 23 off, and come to the arcade fire with me. tickets are still being sold, so tap it while you can. it's going to be the best show of our lives.
also for shaina: you should try to make it out here for may 23, because i know you love the arcade fire too.
love love love
Jamison.
call my cell after wednesday. if you don't have my number message me on facebook or myspace or the internet or mail or whatever.
shaina baby, let's also go to the ocean when you move out here soon. it's going to happen, whether you like or not, and oh baby, do you like it. miss you!
adoring readers, i want to go to white rock with you. let's make a date.
also for roper: take wednesday may 23 off, and come to the arcade fire with me. tickets are still being sold, so tap it while you can. it's going to be the best show of our lives.
also for shaina: you should try to make it out here for may 23, because i know you love the arcade fire too.
love love love
Jamison.
Thursday, May 3, 2007
rainy day: reprise
i used to go fishing with my dad all the time. one of the places we would fish was a river, running though Parksville. we would catch salmon the length of my arm. we would go to lakes, trying to catch things, but would always take hours longer. there a lot more prohibition on fish these days, making the good ol' father son fishing trips much less fun.
we would go fishing in the ocean, between the harbor of Nanaimo and Snake Island, a rock where the sea lions called home. i would never catch anything, but my dad would get red snappers, with sharp fins that scared me. i was always the one afraid to kill the fish, and clean it.
i had this sushi last week, that tasted like the dock where we used to clean our fish, a block away from the greasy pub where i worked, and the house i lived in, last summer.
there was one time my brother was trying to reel in a trout, out of dam with an undertow. he was standing on a big rock when his line snapped and he fell off. that always makes me laugh.
the last time i went fishing was in Tofino. we charted a commercial fishing boat, hoping to catch some halibut for dinner. i was cold the entire time, because i was only wearing a hoodie, and i could only see 100 meters away from the boat because it was overcast and foggy. i only had about two tugs on my line the entire time. only once did i feel the exciting rush of having a fish on my line, the rush which every man should feel at least once in his lifetime. most of the time the only thing i could catch was fishing lines of other people, and the one fish i caught was too small to keep.
dinner that night was potatoes and, store-bought cereal. alas.
well, those are some of my most loved fishing stories. i have not gone fishing in a long long time. it almost feels depressing. fishing is like a part of me, being that i'm from BC. its a part of my heritage, being able to catch dinner. oh well.
we would go fishing in the ocean, between the harbor of Nanaimo and Snake Island, a rock where the sea lions called home. i would never catch anything, but my dad would get red snappers, with sharp fins that scared me. i was always the one afraid to kill the fish, and clean it.
i had this sushi last week, that tasted like the dock where we used to clean our fish, a block away from the greasy pub where i worked, and the house i lived in, last summer.
there was one time my brother was trying to reel in a trout, out of dam with an undertow. he was standing on a big rock when his line snapped and he fell off. that always makes me laugh.
the last time i went fishing was in Tofino. we charted a commercial fishing boat, hoping to catch some halibut for dinner. i was cold the entire time, because i was only wearing a hoodie, and i could only see 100 meters away from the boat because it was overcast and foggy. i only had about two tugs on my line the entire time. only once did i feel the exciting rush of having a fish on my line, the rush which every man should feel at least once in his lifetime. most of the time the only thing i could catch was fishing lines of other people, and the one fish i caught was too small to keep.
dinner that night was potatoes and, store-bought cereal. alas.
well, those are some of my most loved fishing stories. i have not gone fishing in a long long time. it almost feels depressing. fishing is like a part of me, being that i'm from BC. its a part of my heritage, being able to catch dinner. oh well.
rainy day
i would like to go fishing. i don't think i've been fishing for...over a decade. (i've begun measuring my life in decades.) i don't want to touch the bait or the fish though, 'cause...that's gross. so, if anyone else wants to go fishing, i'm definitely game. except you will have to be the one doing that stuff i mentioned. (um and while we're on the topic--should we catch any fish and want to eat them, i am also not participating in any de-gutting or ripping-off-of-skin [my body is going numb]. i will happily apply spices and things once it is in a pan.)
anyways, i'm reading a book about Nantucket. i bought it once as part of a "10 books for a dollar" deal. it's really good, an ideal summer starter read. the only thing, is that it's super short. i had to stop reading it here in order to prepare to part with it. i can never figure out if my chronic resistance to ending things is a bad thing or a good thing. all this time i've figured it's a bad thing, because i've been raised in a culture of hyper-productivity...so ongoing things, things that take time, things that you can start but never really finish seem like the worst possible concept. i don't think i agree with this wholeheartedly. maybe a little--because it is good and necessary to finish/end certain things...but i really like the idea of ongoing journeys with mysterious, hazy, tangled paths just ahead...ever-searching and traversing...enjoying the present but anticipating what you'll find in uncertain future presents...
i get a little ridiculous when left to my own devices.
especially when there is a pleasant or provocative book thrown into the mix with me.
so this little faded book about the island of Nantucket. it's really pleasant. i will not pretend i'm not living vicariously through it. frankly, the ocean terrifies me, so i am not entirely sure why i am dreaming about living in it. (okay it doesn't "terrify" me...but it's scary in some respects.) the book is a lazy and reminiscent account of time spent there over the past half-century by a man who was hooked during a college summer in the fifties and ended up building his own cabin there, going through life there, etc. etc. a fascinating tale of the way we seem to take the settings of "the best of times"--fantastic dream worlds--and inevitably turn them into valuable real estate, marketed dreams, available to only the ultra-wealthy. it's kind of tragic. but kind of magic. i guess. nature and landscape and the ultimate vulnerability of the economy in the grand scheme of the world the Lord has made are comforting. the places will outlast us all, and all our silly schemes and dreams.
it's a good book. makes me want to wade in water and go on a boat (also semi-terrifying) and build a cabin and pick flowers and climb trees and sit on the beach in the nighttime and see a movie in a little theatre and visit with familiar folks on the street. saskatchewan is kind of a disgusting place. i imagine being part of a small island community would be so much nicer than being part of a small prairie community. there is no "real" nature here to capture our spirits and imaginations. all we have are dirt and skies and each other. sometimes there is grass. it's sure taking its time getting here this year. there isn't really even weather here either. wind. that is the weather here.
this really isn't inspiring. i'm pretty sure there is no point to it, in fact. i'm not entirely sure why i'm posting it here. let's just call it a standing invitation to go fishing. mixed with a vague book review. with a dash of provincial tourist information. ("avoid saskatchewan!") i'll try to find something nice about it this summer and share it with you. i'm always up for a challenge. (and for an endless search, as we've established. mahah)
but seriously on the fishing.
anyways, i'm reading a book about Nantucket. i bought it once as part of a "10 books for a dollar" deal. it's really good, an ideal summer starter read. the only thing, is that it's super short. i had to stop reading it here in order to prepare to part with it. i can never figure out if my chronic resistance to ending things is a bad thing or a good thing. all this time i've figured it's a bad thing, because i've been raised in a culture of hyper-productivity...so ongoing things, things that take time, things that you can start but never really finish seem like the worst possible concept. i don't think i agree with this wholeheartedly. maybe a little--because it is good and necessary to finish/end certain things...but i really like the idea of ongoing journeys with mysterious, hazy, tangled paths just ahead...ever-searching and traversing...enjoying the present but anticipating what you'll find in uncertain future presents...
i get a little ridiculous when left to my own devices.
especially when there is a pleasant or provocative book thrown into the mix with me.
so this little faded book about the island of Nantucket. it's really pleasant. i will not pretend i'm not living vicariously through it. frankly, the ocean terrifies me, so i am not entirely sure why i am dreaming about living in it. (okay it doesn't "terrify" me...but it's scary in some respects.) the book is a lazy and reminiscent account of time spent there over the past half-century by a man who was hooked during a college summer in the fifties and ended up building his own cabin there, going through life there, etc. etc. a fascinating tale of the way we seem to take the settings of "the best of times"--fantastic dream worlds--and inevitably turn them into valuable real estate, marketed dreams, available to only the ultra-wealthy. it's kind of tragic. but kind of magic. i guess. nature and landscape and the ultimate vulnerability of the economy in the grand scheme of the world the Lord has made are comforting. the places will outlast us all, and all our silly schemes and dreams.
it's a good book. makes me want to wade in water and go on a boat (also semi-terrifying) and build a cabin and pick flowers and climb trees and sit on the beach in the nighttime and see a movie in a little theatre and visit with familiar folks on the street. saskatchewan is kind of a disgusting place. i imagine being part of a small island community would be so much nicer than being part of a small prairie community. there is no "real" nature here to capture our spirits and imaginations. all we have are dirt and skies and each other. sometimes there is grass. it's sure taking its time getting here this year. there isn't really even weather here either. wind. that is the weather here.
this really isn't inspiring. i'm pretty sure there is no point to it, in fact. i'm not entirely sure why i'm posting it here. let's just call it a standing invitation to go fishing. mixed with a vague book review. with a dash of provincial tourist information. ("avoid saskatchewan!") i'll try to find something nice about it this summer and share it with you. i'm always up for a challenge. (and for an endless search, as we've established. mahah)
but seriously on the fishing.
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